A repeat performance in some arbitrary year?
I’m OK. There is no eager expectation of finding lost love, lust, or fortunes. No expectations that I’ll snatch success from defeat. Or that I’ll make that significant scientific contribution to my discipline by trying a second time. It isn’t that there are no regrets or pangs, and I’m not feeling placid in the least.
I fear that the hand of fortune might decide to see what could happen if I were grabbed by the back of my neck and plunked into, say, 1975. What would I do? I’d Run as far away From my 1975 self as possible. No, “Pssst, hey Lou, don’t stick your fingers into that.” No, “Here are the results of the fight. Place a bet.”
Success is not the issue, but messing with undoing what I like is. Things were horrible. Often. But would you like to chance on destroying the very good too? It could be a case where pursuing the perfect destroys the good – with no guarantees things will improve.
I’ll settle down with a nice science fiction novel on time travel instead.
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